


Queen's Mate

by Mad_Maudlin



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Cunnilingus, D/s, Dark, F/M, Mirrors, Object Insertion, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 14:44:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'Don't feel bad, pretty. You never really stood a chance.'"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen's Mate

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: For [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/gwynlen/profile)[**gwynlen**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/gwynlen/) and the [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/erotic_elves/profile)[**erotic_elves**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/erotic_elves/) Fantasy Fest.

Ron was so busy struggling against the faceless guards that he barely noticed where they were taking him; it took him a moment to register that they had tossed him on plush carpet instead of stone. It took almost no time at all, however, for him to notice when the heavy manacles that twisted his arms behind his back evaporated. He leapt to his feet and threw himself at the door, just seconds after it shut fast behind him. "Let me out!" he bellowed as he pounded on the unyielding wood. "Let me out of here, you cowardly sons of bitches!"

"Such _language."_

He whirled, and finally became aware of his surroundings. He'd expected just another cell, or perhaps some sort of torture chamber; instead he was in a sort of apartment, furnished richly but swathed with shadow.

And he wasn't alone.

"Who's there?" he demanded at the shadows. Oh, to have his wand backonly about five candles in the chandelier were lit, and he couldn't see most of the room. He shifted forward and to the side just enough that he wouldn't be backed into a wall.

Someone laughedthe same voice as before, low and hoarse but very feminine. "The bathroom," she said, "is to your left."

He blinked in the darkness. "...what?"

"The bathroom is to your left."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ron demanded.

A pause. "It means that the bathroom is to your left."

She never varied her intonation or inflection; the voice might as well have been a recording. Ron licked his lips. "All right," he said. "So the bathroom is to my left."

"Yes."

"And I am supposed to...?"

"Use it."

Ron stiffened. He hadn't been allowed to shower since he'd been captured, so many days ago that he'd lost count. But he'd be damned if he'd do _anything_ he was told to by a Death Eater; it was a matter of principle. "Tell me who you are, first," he said.

He barely registered a movement in the shadows before a hex flashed by his face, hot enough to singe. He dove for the floorbut it seemed that the witch had deliberately missed, blasting a small crater in the wall behind him instead.

"The bathroom," she said evenly, "is now straight ahead."

Swallowing, Ron crept to the door, keeping low to the groundjust in case.

The bathroom was just as plush as the parlor he'd been dumped in, with marble floors and a white enameled whale of a tub. A spindly glass-top table also held several bottles of potions he vaguely recognizedsimple draughts for healing minor injuries without a wand.

Behind him, the lock on the door clicked shut.

He debated with himself for only a moment before he undressed and climbed into the tub. The allure of hot water and soap was simply too tempting, and besides, what could he do without a wand? And to finally get clean, after the squalor of his cellit made him feel like a human being again, a rare commodity for a prisoner of war. He felt he should savor it while he could.

When he finally shut off the shower and pulled back the curtain, he noticed his clothes were gone, replaced by a stack of fluffy white towels. An old-fashioned shaving kit had also been laid out on the sinkhe rubbed his jaw and took the hint. He also sniffed the potions on the spindly table, though if they were secretly poisons he doubted he'd know the difference. They helped close his assorted collection of cuts and scrapes, and with generous application they faded his bruises to a faint yellowish color.

He wasn't naïve. He had had things relatively easycaptured and imprisoned, yes, but at least he hadn't yet had to learn what made screams echo through the dungeons at all hours. He had no illusion that he was being allowed to clean up and heal out of the goodness of anyone's heart. But he didn't want to die, either, and being alone with this witch was his best possible chance of escapeand like the opening of a chess game, sometimes the scripted moves were the only ones safe to make.

Didn't mean he had to like it, though.

As he was wiping the last bits of oily unguent off a tender spot on his ribs, the door swung open, letting in a shock of cool, dry air. "Come out," said the witch in the parlor.

Ron hesitated. "Where are my clothes?"

"Come out," she said again.

After a moment's uneasy dithering, he wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped back into the parlor. The bathroom door swung shut, and the chandelier finally burst into dazzling flame. The witch chuckled from a leather armchair deep in a corner, and finally, finally, Ron recognized her, and his blood ran cold.

"Is the ickle boy so shy?" Bellatrix Lestrange said, rising.

Ron leapt backwards and bumped hard into the door. "What do you want?" he demanded.

Lestrange advanced on him with a wide, fixed smile. "Is the ickle boy shy or just modest?" she crooned gently.

"What do you want?" He tried to keep his distance, but the fine furniture made a maze of the room and kept him stumbling.

"The ickle baby boy is so modest...so shy..." Lestrange's wand was suddenly pressed against the hollow of his throat, freezing him in place. "Or is the ickle boy afraid, hmmm?"

Ron licked his lips, looking down into her wide black eyes. She wasn't even touching him, but her hand seemed to radiate cold, like the dementors she'd once lived among. "What," he asked slowly, "do you want from me?"

She chuckled. "I want you to take off that towel."

Ron flushed, but the wooden point pressing into his neck dug deeper. He clenched his jaw and slowly untucked the corner of the towel, let it fall into a pile at his feet.

"Good boy," Lestrange cooed. She withdrew her wand for a moment and Ron stepped backward, trying to cover himself with one hand. She clucked her tongue at him. "Stand still. Let me have a look at you."

"I'd rather not, thanks."

She chuckled again. "The ickle boy is cheeky, mmm? Does he need a spanking?"

Ron imagined her bending over her knee and paddling him with a broomstick like his mother used to, and his stomach turned. "I'd like to see you try," he snapped.

One thin, dark eyebrow shot up. "Would you, now?"

Oh. Oh, god. She didn't think he meantRon swallowed hard, pushing that thought from his mind before it was even full-formed. "Get to the point," he said with as much bluster as he could. "You didn't bring me here to ogle me."

"How do you know I didn't?" She trailed the tip of her wand along his chest and stomach, traced the span of his collarbone before circling around back to caress his arms and shoulders. "Perhaps I just wanted something pretty to look at."

Had Bellatrix Lestrange just called him _pretty?_ Ron bit his lip as he felt her wand slip down his spine. "You went to all the trouble of bringing me here and cleaning me up just to look at me?"

"Well, you were filthy."

The tip of her wand rested on the small of his back; the next thing he felt was her cold hand squeezing his arse. He spun around with his fists up, and actually grazed the side of her jaw with his knucklesthe next thing he knew he was crashing into the opposite wall with an oozing slash from one shoulder to the edge of his ribs along the other side. The impact knocked the wind out of him, his vision starred, and he slid to the floor gasping, ornaments and paintings crashing around him.

Lestrange crossed the room and stood at his feet. "Look what you made me do," she said with the barest pout. She crouched down between his splayed legs, toying with her wand in both hands. "Naughty little boys are punished, you know. I could send you back to the dungeons. Walden has been looking for someone with a bit of spirit lately."

He thought of the disembodied screaming, and shuddered in spite of himself. There was no hope in the dungeons, no moves that didn't lead to checkmate. He braced himself and breathed deeply. "What do you want me to do?"

Lestrange beamed at him. "Good boy," she said again, and healed the slash with a few words and a swooping gesture. "Good boys are rewarded. I make sure of that."

"What sort of reward?" he asked, seeing potential in the word.

"Oh, all sorts of ways...." She chuckled, and her hand dropped into his lap. "I'm sure a bright boy like you can figure it out."

Ron clenched his jaw until it ached as she started to fondle him. He wasn't about to get flung across the room twice, he told himself while she played with his foreskin. He couldn't anger her further if he wanted to play this out. He had to overcome her if he wanted to escape. He repeated this in his mind while she examined his cock, and he clenched his fists when she squeezed and rolled his balls in her icy hand.

When her fingers slipped onto the sensitive place on his perineum, he drew his legs up and kicked her has hard as he could. "Don't _touch_ me!"

_"Crucio!"_

She didn't leave him under the curse longjust enough to leave him weak and trembling on the floorboards. He tried to push himself up, but his arms wouldn't support his weight. She assisted him by yanking him up by the hair. "Naughty boy," she hissed. "I just said naughty boys are punished."

Ron tried to take a steady breath and speak evenly. "Cut the shite and tell me what you want."

She dropped him to the floorboards again. "I've already explained it. Good boy get rewards and naughty boys are punished. It's entirely up to you whether you wish to be good or not." She groped him again. "And good boys are very, very obedient."

He shut his eyes. He was pinned. If he pushed her any further she would only torture him, perhaps kill him, or maybe just send him off to the tender mercies of MacNair. But to let himself be usedor worsehis stomach turned at the thought. He couldn't submit to her. He _wouldn't_.

But if it gave him a chance of escape from this hellhole, even a slim one...

He forced his eyes open, forced himself up on hands and knees. He couldn't actually look at her. "What do you want me to do?" he asked for what felt like the millionth time

She ruffled his hair. "Good boy," she cooed. "Come to the bedroom."

He began to stand at the same time she did.

"Crawl."

Ron ground his teeth so hard he was surprised they didn't crack, and he knew his face was glowing with shame, but he crawled behind Lestrange into a bedroom no less sumptuous that the rest of the suite. She settled into another large armchair and simply watched him for a moment. "Well?" he asked.

Lestrange clucked her tongue. "You will speak only when I give you permission. And you may undress me."

She was wearing high buckled boots of buttery leather, and when he tried to remove them she kicked his hands aside. He began instead on the heavy black robes she wore: he unfastened them from the bottom up, tugging violently at the closures until she scolded him to be more gentle. It took very little time for him to realize she was naked underneath.

Ron had seen naked women beforehe wasn't a virgin or anythingand under the circumstances he wasn't the least bit interested in looking at Lestrange. But she made it hard not to look when she spread her thighs like that, revealing a patch of black hair bisected by a gaping red slit like an open wound. His stomach rolled over again when he realized how wet she was, how much she was getting off on this. He had to move closer to work the buttons over her stomach (pale and soft) and breasts (small and firm, nipples stiff as wood); she shifted and rolled her hips forward, rubbing herself against his abdomen and leaving a streak of fluid on his skin. He recoiled, but she seized his wrists.

"Be a good boy," she said, pinning his hands over where a human would have a heart. "Finish the task at hand."

He opened her collar, and she shrugged the robes off, then stretched languidly with her arms above her head. He tried to wipe her wetness off his stomach, but only succeeded in spreading the scent around. "Good boy," she crooned. "Did you like that?"

"No."

She clucked her tongue again. "Mind you manners. Did you like that?"

He managed to force out, "No, _ma'am."_

Lestrange sighed theatrically, but then leaned back and spread her legs even wider. "Well. Perhaps this will be more to your liking, then."

Ron glared at her, unmoving. He had the idea of what she wanted, but reward or not, he'd be damned if he'd do anything for her without an explicit order.

"Does the ickle boy need it explained to him?"

"I reckon so. Ma'am," he growled.

With a flick of her wand she called down sturdy chains from the ceiling that twisted his arms up behind his head. She slung her legs over his shoulders and pulled him forward, pressing his face into her cunt. "The ickle baby has a mouth on him, does he?" she crooned, running her fingers through his hair. "Perhaps he should try to use it."

Ron growled and thrashed, but the chains held fast; if he struggled too much, he'd dislocate his own shoulders. He glared at her, but she only smiled and wiggled her hips a bit, rubbing herself onto his face. When he didn't do anything, the cold fingers in his hair made a fist.

"Be a good boy, now."

Pinned again. Another sacrifice. Ron fought down the urge to retch and took a deep breath, nearly gagging on the musky scent. She was soft and tangy-sour under his lips, but her muscles gripped his tongue like iron bands when he pushed inside her. Her clit was swollen and stiff inside its hood, and she moaned loudly when he sucked on it.

"Yessss...oh, yes, such good boy..." She rocked against his face, smearing him with her juices. "Don't stop that, don't stop...."

She kept talking while Ron's hands clenched painfully around the chains, didn't stop swearing and demanding and crying out. The noise made it impossible for him to shut out what he was doing and to whom; every little whimper and gasp and moan made it harder to remember why he was doing this. Her smell filled his nose, her tasted filled his mouth, her wetness was running down his chinhe could feel his grip on his temper slipping a little every time she thrust against his face. Someday he would make her pay for this, he promised himself, someday he would pay her back...but not now...right now he needed to play out the game, if there was any chance at all it would lead to his escape...but one day...

She wrapped both her hands in her hair and ground into his face, pussy spasming. "Yes," she moaned, "yes, my good boy...my pretty boy..._mine_..."

_To hell with the game._

He sank his teeth into her flesh and felt it give way, tasted blood mixed with her juices. He couldn't tell if her scream was from her orgasm or the pain or a mix of the two, but a second later the chains jerked him painfully to his feet. Lestrange leapt up as well, eyes blazing, apparently oblivious to the blood running down her leg and into her boot.

"Naughty boy," she hissed, banishing the chair to the other side of the room. She made a slow circle around him, twirling her wand between her fingers. "Naughty, naughty, naughty...I told you what happens to naughty little boys."

"I'm not a boy," Ron snarled, "and you don't own me."

Lestrange froze, and the room went terrifyingly still. Ron wondered if the Killing Curse hurt.

Then she laughedno, giggled, high and a little madand said, "Not yet."

A piece of dark cloth suddenly flashed across his face and tightened across his eyes, completely blinding him. He felt Lestrange press against him from the front next, and she wiped his face with deplorable gentleness before forcing a gag between his teeth. It dawned on him that she wasn't going to kill himbut somehow he suspected that whatever she was about to do might just be even worse.

He heard the soft _pop_ of something being conjured and jumped; she giggled again. "Is the ickle baby afraid?" she crooned. "Does he wonder what the big bad lady is going to do to him?"

She rubbed something against his chest, something long and hard that felt like it was wrapped in leather. But he felt something brush his leg, something like a piece of thin rope or cord. She looped the cord under his cock and rolled it back and forth so he could feel every plait. The cord went over his shoulder then, snaking up behind him and around his neck as he tried to work out what she was doing to him...a stick and a rope...

She suddenly pulled the cord taut around his throat, pinching off air and wrenching his head back sharply. "This ickle boy's been very naughty," she said in a singsong lilt as he gasped around the gag and squirmed. "Naughty boys need to be punished. But if he takes his punishment like a good boy, I can make it all better. Understand?"

Ron nodded frantically, hoping to be released; she pulled the cord away in a long sweep that left a raw patch across the front of his throat. _Take it like a good boy,_ right. He would endure this. As long as she didn't kill him, he still had a chancehe could still escape. He could manage it, maybe, as long as she let him live

Something like a tiny explosion went off near his ear, and he started again. Rope. Stick. Crack. Oh, god. She had a whip.

The first blow landed high on his shoulder; he bit down hard on the gag to keep from crying out. "Oh, that won't do," Lestrange said behind him. "I must be sure you're suffering appropriately." Another stroke rocked him forward. "Let me hear you scream."

_Like hell,_ he thought. He was going to take this like a man.

Another stroke, just above his buttocks. "Let me hear you, pretty boy," she said. A blow, harder than before, just over his left kidney. "I won't stop until I do."

He pushed fruitlessly at the gag with his tongue, then settled for making an obscene gesture with his shackled hands. The next stroke was the hardest so far.

"Scream for me."

Stroke.

"Cry for me."

Stroke.

"Beg me to stop."

_Not even if you took out the gag, _Ron thought before the next stroke nearly pushed him off his feet again. There was no rhythm to it, no patternhe couldn't brace himself for what he couldn't anticipate. The next stroke did knock his feet out from under him, forced his bound arms to take all his weight, and in spite of the gag he let out a little involuntary whimper.

Lestrange stopped, and the gag vanished like smoke. "Good boy," she said. "Do that again."

She struck him before he could get his feet back again, and his breath came out like a sob. Harder and faster now, but still quite random, and now he couldn't hold back little gasps and groans every time he rocked forward on his aching arms. Just breathing was starting to hurt, and behind the blindfold his vision was fuzzing and starring wildly.

"Be a good boy," Lestrange said.

_Take it like a man,_ he told himself, gasping.

The next stroke landed, hardest of all. He felt his skin split.

He screamed.

The chains suddenly slackened, and he crashed to his knees. Lestrange whisked the blindfold away, and cradled his head in her hands. "Are you sorry now?" she asked.

Ron swallowed, and with tremendous effort, nodded.

"Good." She brushed his sweaty hair from his forehead. "Good boy."

She walked away and left him dangling there: he wondered if she would leave him all night. At least he could sit back on his heels and let his arms rest, though his head was spinning from pain. There had been something he needed to remember...something important...escape. Right. Like he could go anywhere in this condition....

Lestrange came back with a large ewer, a towel and a potion bottle. He heard her kneel behind him, and then gasped when she poured cool water over the wounds she'd just made. Then she began to clean them with the towel, a soft, cool towel that barely ghosted over his abused skin and left the tingle of healing magic where it had passed. Ron sucked in a deep breath, because his rational mind insisted that this ought to hurt, that it should be stinging and burning like mad. But it didn't hurt; it felt wonderful, sensual, intense in a totally unfamiliar way. He wondered if Lestrange had bewitched him: or maybe his brain had become so scrambled that anything felt good if it wasn't agony...

"You like that?" Lestrange whispered in his ear, and he realized he had moaned. He grit his teeth, determined not to answer; the towel passed over the laceration in the middle of his back and the pleasure-pain was so intense he hissed. "Does it feel good, my pretty boy?"

"No," he said, and then rocked backwards to catch the full press of her hands. Her laughter made his face burn and stomach tighten, but he couldn't seem to bring himself to stop.

At some point her gentle ministrations with the towel gave way to open groping of his arse; the thought of fighting drifted across his mind. He should fight back. He should lash out with legs and fists, should smash her delicate face, should beat her down and tell her that no one was going to use Ronald Billius Weasley like this, not now, not ever, and keep her cold goddamn hands off of him.

Except...

Except he didn't really want her to stop.

He let himself fall forward, putting his weight on his arms in spite of the lingering ache. Lestrange seemed to take that for an invitation to reach between his legs and squeeze his cock, play with his balls until he started to harden. He wanted this to be happening to someone else. He wanted to ignore the pleasure and the pain, to pretend he wasn't getting off on being whipped and wanked by a Death Eater. Her fist on his cock kept him in anchored in his body, her fist and the fingers that were suddenly touching and pressing around his arsehole...."No," he croaked, when he realized what she was doing.

She laughed again. "Little boys don't get to tell grown-ups what to do," she said, and slapped his arse. The sting felt good, like the potion on his back and the hand pulling his erection down and back at an angle. Ron squeezed his eyes shut, mortified at his own response.

But not so mortified he didn't squirm when her fingers slipped into him, still cold but suddenly coated with something slick and warm. He couldn't be feeling this. This couldn't be happening.

"Open your eyes, pretty," Lestrange cooed. "You don't want to miss this."

He did want to miss it, very much; but he opened them anyway, and saw that she'd had conjured an antique mirror in front of them. He had to look at his dark, erect cock and his flushed face, at the scrape left by the whipcord on his neck; behind him, Lestrange was barely visible. Then the chains holding his arms up gave way entirely, though his wrists were still shackled together. Her arms around his chest were all that kept him from falling flat on his face, and she tweaked his nipples with long, lacquered nails before gently guiding him forward. Hands and knees were impossible; he had to brace himself on his elbows, which left his arse exposed, pointing high in the air.

In the mirror, he could watch as she kneaded his cheeks, and then she picked up the whip. It had a long, thick handle with a little knob at the end, and she made a great show of rubbing it with some kind of thick oil from the tip of her wand. "No," Ron said again when she pressed the knob-end against his hole, "please, no."

She hesitated with a little smile. "Say that again."

"Please don't."

"Again."

"_Please._"

She pressed the whip down and inward; it hurt like hell, except at some point in the night that had ceased to be a bad thing. Ron pressed his forehead against his shackles and gasped, wishing he could just pass out or die or _something_ and not have to remember this, any of this. "Again," she repeated, when the knob had vanished inside him.

"Please," he croaked. The whip went deeper, and she was still wanking him, and god. He couldn't do this. His legs were shaking and his body was one giant throbbing nerve and he couldn't do this, couldn't endure this. He was going to die with a whip up his arse, in front of Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Again." She pressed it in further still, and it hit something inside that made Ron's whole body jump with pleasure, that made his cock throb and arse clench painfully. A hoarse sort of sob burst from his chest, and in the mirror he saw Lestrange's eyes light up. "Did you like that, pretty boy?" she asked again.

"No," he gasped, and then groaned when she did it again.

She stopped wanking him and climbed to her feet. He watched her straddle his hips, saw the streak of blood still paining her inner thigh, and thought for one beautiful moment that she wouldn't possibly do what she seemed about to do.

She flicked the long plaited cord of the whip over his shoulder, held it down firmly against the protruding length of handle, and impaled herself on it.

It ripped another cry from Ron's throat: her weight drove the whip deeper in, hard up against that sensitive spot. Slowly she started to rock in place, touching herself with one hand; every stroke sent the knob-end of the whip against that little spot and made Ron see stars. He wanted, needed to touch himself, but couldn't move his arms without landing on his face. She started to move faster, harder, and the whip moved inside him, and he shut his eyes against the image in the mirror: she was on top of him, she was driving against him, she was fucking him and he didn't want it to stop.

"Say it," she grunted from somewhere above.

"Please," he groaned.

"Please what?"

"I don't know!"

She reached between their bodies and touched his arsehole, stretched by the whip and wet with her juices. "Do you want to come?" she asked.

_No!_ "Yes!"

"Do you want me to make you come?"

"Yes," he sobbed into his hands.

"Ask."

He moved under her, with her, needing that hard press inside him, that jolt of pleasure. His eyes prismed over with tears. "Make me come," he gasped. "Let me come. Please let me come..."

She cried out a little in a sudden new pitch, and plunged herself one last time, hard, onto the whip. That drove it deeper into him, and from a long way off his orgasm hit and washed his mind away.

Some time later he came back to himself in the sumptuous bed, feeling sore and stiff and dizzy. His arse and shoulders ached, and his fingers stung with the return of circulation. It had really happened; the discomfort was more than he could deny. Bellatrix Lestrange had just fucked him to a shattering orgasm, and he had done nothing to stop. He'd actually _enjoyed_ it.

"Wakey wakey," Bellatrix said with a giggle as she appeared at his side, dressed and shower-fresh. "Is my ickle boy feeling better?"

He nodded. It would be difficult to feel worse.

She pressed a kiss onto his forehead and ruffled his hair. "I told you I'd reward you if you were good," she said, began to rub some kind of ointment into his abraded wrists.

Ron thought of all the ways he could fight back right now, in spite of the pain. One good swing with his free had would probably knock her out, or he could push her into the bedding and suffocate her. He could take her wand and go, out of this prison, out of the hell of Wizard Britain, or at least he could die well in the attempt.

There were a lot of things he could have done. He didn't do any of them.

Bellatrix wiped his wrists clean and patted him on the head again. "Good boy," she said. "Now, aren't you glad I didn't let nasty old Walden have his way with you?"

Ron thought of the screaming in the dungeons and the unyielding pressure of wood and leather in his arse. He thought of noble deaths and pride and pleasure beyond comprehension. "Yes, ma'am," he whispered.

She kissed his head again. "Don't feel bad, pretty. You never really stood a chance."


End file.
